A good friend who cares about my blog and my reputation as a writer with some shred of merit, sensed that I needed inspiration and sent me an idea tonight.
He was watching a show on the 40th anniversary of the lunar landing and was suddenly struck that he was the same age, 13, when he watched Walter Cronkite’s live broadcast of the event, as his daughter is now.
He remembered where he was and who he was with and how awed he felt 40 years ago, and he tried to impart this wonder on his daughter as he watched the special. He was still moved by the moment, by the passing of Walter Cronkite, by the memory of it all and how simple life was back then. But every time he’d tell his daughter to pay attention to the television, she’d go back to her laptop, where she was busy communicating with some other 13-year-old on her laptop.
He was wondering if there was some sort of lesson in all of this, other than giving me a blog idea, but I could not help him. I could plagiarize from him, yes, but I could not do much more for two reasons. One, I was seven going on eight in the summer of 1969 and the only thing I remember when I was seven was my second-grade teacher at Todd Hall, Miss Vihon, and even that was fuzzy.
The other reason I could not get all poetic with him is that I have a pounding headache and cannot concentrate and may lapse into a coma at any minute because I have been off sugar for two days in an effort to break myself of this addiction and maybe lose some weight in the process.
I am not sure how this all started but I can’t imagine how heroin withdrawal would be much worse, and I’m pretty sure it’s my husband Rick’s fault.
I was never a big sweet-eater. Not when I was seven and should’ve been paying more attention to the lunar landing. And not when I was a still-skinny teenager and could have probably eaten one of my mother’s luscious cheesecakes every day without a problem but instead missed my chance.
And then I got married.
Something strange happens when you get married. When you’re a woman, I’ll admit, the pressure is off a little. No longer do you worry about how you will look eating a giant bowl of ice cream in front of your boyfriend because now he’s your husband and he’s calling out from the kitchen every night, asking if you want a giant bowl of ice cream.
“You want some ice cream, honey?”
It’s all very cozy and nice until both of you can no longer see your feet and you suddenly realize you need to go through rehab to kick this ugly habit.
In recent years, I’ve gone into hiding while reading every Suzanne Somers book on the market and have determined, through her scientific research, that consuming hundreds of grams of sugar per day is not healthy. This, and I noticed that when I miss my 4 p.m. cookie fix, I develop a migraine and when I miss a day, I turn violent.
The other night, I came home unexpectedly early to find my husband and children enjoying various Dairy Queen treats. Rick had called my cell to ask if I wanted him to bring me something, but I missed the call and when I got home to find them licking up the last remnants, I was not pleased.
The DQ episode, as they now refer to it, was not something I am terribly proud of. But it was not something I could control either. I was mean. My daughter described it as “berserk” and my son amended it to “Blizzerk” using a terribly clever play on the DQ Blizzard, a personal favorite of mine and I would think everyone’s unless there is something seriously wrong with them.
So now I am going cold turkey, because Skinny Cow’s and diet sawdust bars do not work for me, and a little ice cream once a week would be worse than tickle torture.
I will try to write my way through this. But I cannot promise anything.
And in the meantime, maybe someone will invent a sugar substitute that will taste like a real Blizzard.
I mean, if they could put a man on the moon . . .